


whole made of pieces

by casfallsinlove



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist Castiel, BFFs, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, honestly nothing but fluff really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 03:26:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casfallsinlove/pseuds/casfallsinlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dean dumps his satchel down and is greeted with the soft lyrics of that acoustic indie crap that means Cas is painting somewhere, because he paints to emo music but does delicate, beautiful pencil sketches to hard rock and Dean doesn't know, nothing about Cas has ever made any fucking sense."</p>
<p>In which Dean and Castiel, best friends since they were kids, are rooming together at college and Cas is a weird weirdo who thinks talking about Mr. Coffee and toasters will make Dean's shitty day better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	whole made of pieces

**Author's Note:**

> also on [tumblr](http://casfallsinlove.tumblr.com/tagged/casfallsinlovefic).
> 
> there is literally nothing but fluff in this tbh.

Dean is in a hell of a bad mood. Professor Crowley gave him a C fucking minus on his assignment and Baby is making a weird coughing noise and his cell phone has stopped working because it's  _maybe_  possible that he forgot to pay it this month and ugh. 

And of course it's fucking freezing and he stupidly left his jacket in the backseat of the car so by the time he eventually climbs the six flights of stairs in their crappy apartment building and unlocks the door to their crappy apartment, not only are his knees aching but his nose is cold and his fingers are numb.

He dumps his satchel down and is greeted with the soft lyrics of that acoustic indie crap that means Cas is painting somewhere, because he paints to emo music but does delicate, beautiful pencil sketches to hard rock and Dean doesn't know, nothing about Cas has ever made any fucking sense. 

His sneakers scuff the already scuffed wall when he kicks them off and he grabs a soda and the box of leftover pizza from the fridge on his way to their bedroom. Sure enough, Cas is standing in front of his ancient wooden easel that Dean scratched their initials into when they were ten years old, in the same sweatpants he slept in last night and the fraying, faded sweatshirt he always wears when painting. He's got a paintbrush behind his ear that's left a smudge of yellow on his temple and his hair is a complete lost cause. 

"Tell me I'm awesome, Cas," he groans, shoving the pizza and can on the desk between the tubes of oil paint and collapsing face down onto the bed. Cas hums noncommittally which isn't exactly reassuring and Dean presses his face into his forearm until multicoloured spots bloom on his eyelids. "I had the worst fucking day."

Distractedly, Cas says, "I didn't. I had rather a good day. My father has transferred five hundred dollars into my bank account for extracurricular activities so I thought we could go and purchase that coffee machine on Saturday, maybe? After Sam has visited. Or with Sam, perhaps, if he doesn't mind."

Dean lifts his head and blinks at him. "Dude. You're not buying that godawful Mr. Coffee with money that's meant to be going towards your college education."

Cas frowns as he dabs some sort of paint-covered sponge over the canvas. "Why not? I don't need his money. I may as well spend it on something worthwhile. I was going to get you a new jacket, too. I noticed a hole in yours."

See, if Dean didn't know better he would think that Cas was oxygen-deprived as a kid and it left him damaged in the head but in actual fact Cas is the way he is because of his weird-ass dysfunctional family and the fact that he's a billion times smarter than everyone around him.

Still, doesn't stop him being completely emotionally inept. "Will you shut the fuck up and come here?"

Cas sighs like a martyr as he puts down his paint palette and sponge and removes the spare brush from his ear and bends down beside the bed until he's level with Dean. But his eyes are bright and blue and his mouth is quirked upwards in a soft smile. Dean returns the smile, easing a hand out from underneath his stomach to push into Cas's paint-flecked hair.

"Did you get much work done?"

"Mm. Some," Cas nods, nuzzling into Dean's palm like some sort of freaking cat. 

"So you can take a break for say, I dunno, an hour? Maybe an hour 'n' a half?" he murmurs, wiggling an eyebrow suggestively. 

Cas narrows his eyes and asks, "Will you let me sketch you after?" and he's a sneaky bastard because Dean hates sitting for him and having every inch of his body scrutinised, but Cas _knows_ that a post-sex Dean is usually orgasm-happy enough to say yes to pretty much anything.

"Yeah yeah, you perv. But I ain't bein' one of your French girls, Cas. Take a pencil to Dean Junior and I'll take that bottle of turpentine and shove it somewhere the sun don't shine, capiche?"

Cas pouts, but says, "Yeah, I capiche," and then Dean is dragging him in and pressing their mouths together hot and wet and slack. It doesn't get old, kissing Cas, not since they were sixteen and realised that it was the only thing missing from whatever-the-fuck they were. Dean could kiss him all fucking day, seven days a week and thinks he'd probably be pretty damn happy about it, so long as he could surface for beer and pizza occasionally.

Cas climbs onto the bed, straddling Dean in one swift movement, his knees pressing hard into Dean's hips. "I might buy a toaster, too," he mumbles, between kisses, as his hands tease under Dean's shirt.

Dean frowns. "We've got a toaster." He grabs Cas's ass through his sweats, yanking him closer until they both groan at the friction. 

Breathlessly, Cas shakes his head and says, "This one's green. I'd like a green toaster." And who is Dean to comment, when he himself bought a plate, mug and bowl set that he didn't need only because the bone china was the exact same shade of blue as Cas's eyes? Yeah, he ain't judging. 

"Stop talking about breakfast machinery and fucking fuck me already," he growls, and Cas looks like he wants to say something to that, probably to question the legitimacy of the phrase 'breakfast machinery' when they've both been known to snack on toast in moments of 2am post-sex munchies, but Dean is not prepared to have that conversation so he plunges his hands past the waistband of Cas's sweatpants and his tongue inside Cas's mouth, instead. 

They don't talk much after that, other than the occasional swear or desperate plea of  _harder faster oh god_ or the quietly uttered  _I love you I love you I love--_ from Cas when his voice cracks and he comes, buried inside Dean, breath hot on Dean's neck and lips pressing the words into Dean's skin like he's delivering a blessing. 

They lie together, afterwards, quivering still, and Dean feels like he could sleep for a week. Just like this, curled up around Cas so that he can nose into the soft hair on the back of Cas's neck and smell that painty-chalky kind of smell that is so inherently him. 

"Tell me about your day," Cas rumbles, voice thick like molasses, and Dean very nearly rolls his eyes. 

"S'okay," he whispers, dancing light fingertips across the fine hair below Cas's bellybutton. "Just Crowley bein' a dick. Gonna have to get an A in the Joyce exam to even think about scrapin' a B in that stupid Modernism class now, and you know how much I fuckin' hate  _Ulysses_ , man."

"I do," Cas agrees.

Dean sighs. "Just a lotta things, I guess. I'm good now." He kisses the warm spot behind Cas's ear. "Thank you."

Of course, Cas then has to go and ruin what was turning into a pretty nice moment by sliding out of bed to get his sketchbook, slipping into his sweats but nothing else and curling himself into the desk chair beside the bed so he can properly observe Dean. Shaking his head, Dean lies back amongst the pillows, sheets tangled around his waist, and let's Cas do his thing because that's all you can ever do with Cas.

And then the smooth sound of pencil on paper stutters and pauses, and Cas looks up and says softly, "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you, the way Sam sees you. You are remarkable, Dean Winchester."

Dean knows he means it because Cas never says anything he doesn't mean, and he has to blink away the burning in the corner of his eyes. Cas holds his gaze for a moment before nodding once and returning to his sketch, mission accomplished. But when Dean reaches out a hand Cas takes it, and he feels weightless, bad day falling away from him in pieces, and he's completely in love.

He smiles, and Cas smiles back. 


End file.
